Five Times Earl Cooked For Cecil (And a Sixth Time He Did Not)
by messyfeathers
Summary: It takes a lot to love someone. It takes a lot more to let them go. [a collection of six short chapters following Cecil and Earl through the ups and downs of their relationship]
1. Cookies

_Disclaimer: Welcome to Night Vale belongs to Commonplace Books_

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><p><strong>Cookies<strong>

Kissed a little too gold by the oven, sprinkles smattered in haphazard splotches of indigo and turquoise. He'd insisted on making them without his mother's help, a decision which unfortunately shows in the crisped edges and mismatched decorations. It takes several minutes of nervous mulling before Earl manages to shove the treats across the rough wooden expanse between himself and the scout seated on the opposite end of the bench. With slight hesitation, the boy unties the knotted crimson kerchief and slips one out, examining it between bony fingertips.

"Sorry about your Cactus Care and Communication badge," Earl offers after a long moment of silence. It doesn't make sense to be as nervous as he is. The other scout has never given any indication that he doesn't like Earl. He technically hasn't given much indication of _anything _in the almost-two-months since their initiation into the troop. Mostly he stays in the back of the group, messy dark hair partially covering mismatched eyes that constantly rove in silent observation of the proceedings. Earl has never even heard his voice before, which he suspects may have something to do with the boy's failure to earn a badge in communication with desert vegetation.

Earl thinks about him sometimes between meetings. Wonders why he always looks vaguely mistrusting, what sorts of things he busies himself with in his free time, what his voice might sound like. Even now his curiosity on that last count goes unsatisfied; instead of a verbal thank-you, gangly speckled arms wrap unexpectedly around Earl's neck. The other boy is beanpole-thin and all limbs, but the hug isn't as awkward as it is warm. Something about the closeness or the residual smell of campfire smoke from the ceremony or the oddly placed scent of cinnamon - it reminds Earl of home.

"I think they're going to kick me out," the boy whispers in a cracking voice colored with an unexpected touch of panic. Earl pulls away, momentarily dumbfounded by the squeaking rasp as much as the words themselves.

"They don't kick you out for missing a badge." Earl's whispering too, though he doesn't know why - they're the only two left sitting outside the lodge this long after the ceremony. "I don't _think _anyway," he amends uncertainly. Wide eyes scrutinize his face - one light as aspen leaves, the other dark as polished mahogany.

"You sure?" The two boys are so close their noses are almost touching, the other still fixing Earl with a strangely intense focus incongruous to the nature of the situation, in his opinion.

"Pretty?" Satisfied with this response, the other scout nods twice before scrambling back to his previous position on the opposite end of the bench. Earl swears there's some sort of electric surge causing the pale ginger hair on his arms to stand on edge where the boy had been only moments before.

"I'm Cecil by the way." The words are still quiet, though more demure than secretive this time. Long eyelashes flutter shyly as he works to break the cookies evenly in half and slip a handful of the pieces toward his new friend.

"Earl Harlan," the other muffles around a sugary mouthful. Cecil lifts the confection to his nose to inhale the scent of cloves, quirking a grin.

"It's good to have a friend," he mumbles more to himself before taking a bite.

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><p><em>Author Notes: specific herbs are traditionally said to be linked to different properties. <em>

_cloves: friendship, luck_


	2. Baked Lasagna

**Baked Lasagna**

Earl curses under his breath as he allows the ceramic dish clatter to the stovetop. The crust is blistered and blackened in the corners, but the filling beneath it is still gooey and underprepared. _Fitting_, he thinks to himself. It's been two weeks since his eighteenth birthday; in the eyes of City Council, he's an adult - able to fill out his own paperwork, as he and Cecil did together the morning after his birthday in fact. Beneath the surface, though, he still feels like a gawky preteen getting butterflies in his stomach during his first kiss. It makes sense that those same butterflies have come back three years later for another first.

It's his parents' house, but he and Cecil will be alone for the weekend, with nothing but free time and each other and a shiny new permit for physical activity, and he wants everything to be perfect. Candles on the table are already dripping their way from romantic to macabre as he scrambles to arrange every detail for what must be the tenth time. It all feels very far from perfect, but Cecil doesn't notice. All he can talk about is the _gorgeous _candles and the _delicious _lasagna and how _wonderful _it all is. That's what Earl loves most about Cecil - every little thing draws out his enthusiasm in dramatic syllables.

They do the dishes together and clean the kitchen with an excess of bubbles. It's natural, the way they relate to each other. Simple. It makes it easier to muddle through a few false starts afterwards. They settle for sitting in awkward silence at one point, the bed much softer than the wooden bench behind the old boy scout lodge of their childhood. It feels so similar to that first conversation over shared cookies, even though they've come so far in the years since.

The years rush through Earl's mind in a blur of color. He can still recall with perfect clarity the first time he noticed just how beautiful Cecil's eyes were - one in depth, the other in clarity. After that it had all happened so smoothly: the brush of a hand against his own as they drifted ahead of the group on a hike, clandestine kisses stolen within the privacy of a shared canvas tent, the quiet conversations as they watched the embers of a dying fire dance lazily into the starry sky. Though Earl had eagerly confessed love, Cecil had admitted mere curiosity at first. It had taken a while for curiosity to give way to experimentation, experimentation to fascination, fascination to infatuation, and infatuation to the warmth that now lights the soft angles of his expression as the two cautiously perch on the edge of a faded quilt.

"Sorry about dinner, it was a little burned, and I completely forgot to put the saffron in," Earl mumbles to break the looming silence.

"You think I came here for the pasta?" Cecil teases, inching closer and twining dark slender fingers between pale, calloused palms. "I could go to Big Rico's for that." He draws even nearer, tugs with a polished violet nail at the unbuttoned collar of Earl's best dress shirt, slips a kiss to the exposed freckles where neck meets shoulder. "I came here for you."

It's easy then, to touch and taste and explore. They're both so curious; they're both so in love. It isn't perfect. But it's so simple.

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><p><em>saffron: love and sexuality<em>


	3. Marjoram-Glazed Challah Bread

**Marjoram-Glazed Challah Bread**

His arms hurt from stirring, but the dough is almost to a kneadable form. It's a late supper; too much time was spent unpacking boxes, and now their first dinner in their new apartment is going to be out of the oven at nearly 11:00. Cecil doesn't seem concerned. He's been dancing through the sparse rooms for the past half hour, humming tuneless melodies contentedly to himself as he arranges baubles and knick-knacks on dressers and straightens out the sheets on their lumpy little mattress.

"It's just so charming," he sighs as he comes to settle next to Earl with his back against the peeling formica. "Our own place. _Ours_." He beams, teeth catching brilliant white in the single dingy pendant lamp. From his glee one would assume they'd just unpacked into a grand palace instead of a run-down little flat on the undesirable side of town.

Narrow fingers, tips adorned with chipping magenta, steal into the bowl to sneak a taste.

"Stop picking, Ceec, or you're not going to want your supper," Earl reprimands, batting away the intrusion. Cecil insists on arranging himself directly between the chef and his creation. His lips taste like honey, his tongue vanilla - a stolen treat just as much as the missing bit of dough.

"Are you glad we did this?" he asks as they separate, a serious current flowing somewhere beneath the giddy exterior.

They have reason to be apprehensive - after all, moving in together had been a sudden decision, and they're both just nineteen. Cecil's official internship at NVCR begins in a week along with college courses. Earl's just found a job unpacking cargo at the Ralph's that won't interfere with his chance at landing the full-time volunteer position of apprentice scoutmaster. Perhaps the timing hadn't been the best for moving out, especially since he had wanted to go to college first, pursue something culinary maybe, but now there's rent to be paid, and he can always take night classes sometime down the road, and right now Cecil is just so_ happy_...

"Of course I am," Earl replies with a kiss to the tip of his nose. "I just don't know how we're going to afford this place." Cecil kisses him again, gentle and reassuring.

"We'll figure it out. We always do. Isn't that what scouts are anyway?" A soft kiss to Earl's lips. "Resilient?" Another just below his left ear. "Resourceful?" Another softly to his neck. "And very good at sneaking?" Cecil giggles, twirling out of reach with another snitch of uncooked supper.

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><p><em>marjoram: happy home and protection<em>  
><em>vanilla: love and good fortune<em>


	4. Coriander-Crusted Beef Stew

_content warning for described injuries and their treatment_

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><p><strong>Coriander-Crusted Beef Stew<strong>

His own recipe, devised as homework for his culinary management night class up at the community college. He's so proud of it, the way it smells spicy and robust and intriguing. The last-minute addition of thyme was Cecil's idea, not that Cecil should _ever_ be trusted in a kitchen, but this time his creativity has proved invaluable. _Speak of the devil_, Earl thinks to himself as the back door squeals open and shut. Cecil's late getting back from the station tonight. Earl's afraid to leave the sizzling beginnings of his stew in the event they begin to brown too quickly around the edges. After a few minutes pass with no kiss to his cheek or excited little burst about something _so smart_ that Leonard said today, Earl feels prompted towards the door by an urgency he can't justify. An unexpected sight waits around the corner.

Cecil, slumped back against the doorframe, his abdomen blooming in rubies that drip through the fingers clutching his uniform and down to the floor. His eyes are glazed and distant, his dark skin rapidly paling around gaping lips as he struggles for air. Earl scoops him up, carries him to the bathroom, and tries very hard to maintain a brave face as he kneels down and lifts the sticky cotton to reveal the deep gouges torn into the freckled flesh beneath.

"I'm sorry about the door," Cecil chokes as Earl attempts to wipe the area clean enough to stitch. He squirms away instinctively beneath the pressure of the cool washrag.

"I'll take care of it later," Earl soothes, threading a needle with shaking fingers. Indigo fingernails dig painfully into the apprentice scoutmaster's shoulders the moment the sterile tip pierces inflamed skin.

"I'm lucky you know," Cecil gasps after the first two uneven stitches. "The other interns, they don't always have help." A sheen of sweat has broken out along the waxen skin, making the process difficult. "I have you," Cecil continues with an attempt at cheerfulness. A trembling hand ruffles Earl's ginger hair. "You always were the best at the healing badges. Always patching us up when we got into trouble."

Skilled in healing as he may be, Earl has still managed to go dizzy from the overwhelming metallic smell and the cold fear that spreads through him more with each of Cecil's struggled breaths. Earl cuts the thread, ties it best he can with fingers that feel bumbling and unsteady. The makeshift seal is lopsided and uneven. It's far from being the first scar to mar the speckled copper expanse of Cecil's body, and it certainly will not be the last; but it's deep and crooked and ugly.

"You should have gone to the hospital," he whispers half to himself as he gently dabs the remaining mess from the area. Cecil flinches less this time. "I could still take you. It won't scar as badly."

"And then if the landlord makes us pay for the door?" Cecil scoffs with a forced laugh. Earl doesn't laugh. It isn't funny that their new life together is already such an unstable mess. "I'm just an intern, I'm supposed to look like this. Scarred and ugly," Cecil adds in a whisper. Earl shakes his head and mouths his lover's name against his stomach, a caress to older blemishes that have long marred the smooth skin. It isn't true - not through his eyes. Every inch of Cecil is precious. He can never express it; Cecil is the one learning to articulate thought and emotion into something clear and beautiful and vibrant. Earl can only use his lips to trace the curves and dimples and crests.

The tender moment breaks with a jagged interruption as hazy smoke drifts from the kitchen, permeating the bathroom with the aroma of blackened meat and ruined vegetables. "I'm sorry about your soup." Cecil's voice is still unsteady, betraying the shaken nerves beneath.

"It doesn't matter," Earl reassures, standing to pull Cecil into his arms. It doesn't matter that Cecil is scarred and blemished on the surface. It doesn't matter that their lives aren't anything like their colorful childhood dreams predicted they would be. It doesn't even matter that blood seeps through the sutures to stain Earl's apron as his boyfriend sobs into his shoulder.

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><p><em> coriander: unending love, fidelity<em>  
><em>thyme: financial luck, also an end to perpetual worry or recurring nightmares<em>


	5. Lemon-Scented Rosemary Biscuits

**Lemon-Scented Rosemary Biscuits**

Kneading the dough helps with the frustration; it gives him something to do so the words don't sting as badly.

"Why can't we just go?" Cecil's voice carries an edge of accusation almost sharp enough to distract from the hurt he's trying to hide. A drawer of dishcloths slams with unnecessary emphasis. "I don't want to spend my whole life here and never even know what's out there. I need proof that there's more to the world than just this god forsaken desert. We can find somewhere new to start over-"

"How?" Earl interjects sharply. This isn't a new argument; his patience won't survive the full rerun this time. "We're hardly making it _here_, in this shit apartment. You're interning and I'm working two full-time jobs, one of which is entirely volunteer. Tell me how you expect to just leave?" The dough is too elastic beneath his hands, but he continues kneading; to stop would guarantee even more anger filling his replies.

"I can't stay here." Cecil's intentionally guarding his words now, trying to keep his voice clear of emotion like he's so dutifully learning how to do at the radio station. "I've watched two of my closest friends get killed and Leonard didn't even bat an eyelash. I need to get away, just for a while. From this job, that station, this town. Come with me to Europe," he pleads, reaching up to smooth flickers of flame-colored locks from out of Earl's eyes. "You used to promise me we'd explore the world together." Earl ducks away from his disparate gaze, goes back to shaping the rolls on a tray.

"I grew up, Cecil." His boyfriend stiffens at the use of his full name. "It's time you did too." Earl doesn't even need to look to feel the hurt in the other man's demeanor. It's a low blow, given Cecil never even had a chance at a childhood after his mother abandoned him overnight. Though abandonment made Cecil self-sufficient, Earl has always taken it upon himself to take care of his boyfriend. He's always done his best to allow Cecil some small freedom to be irrational and naive and carefree. Earl has always been the voice of responsibility and reason in their relationship; to criticize Cecil now for still clinging to his daydreams, no matter how unrealistic, is unfair.

Still, instead of following his boyfriend's retreat to the bedroom, Earl waits to watch the glow of the oven for a while. They never used to fight, not like this. When he does finally crawl into the bed, it's with guilt eating at the lining of his stomach. "I'm sorry, Ceec," he whispers to the dark, suspecting the other man is already asleep. A pause nearly confirms the assumption until, with a sigh, curious eyes open to peer up at him.

"I know."

"This isn't working," he breathes, sinking back against the pillow. The thought has weighed heavy in his mind for some time now, fear being the only thing keeping it from being voiced. But he's so tired of this fight, of watching the way Cecil's eyes go sad when he thinks Earl isn't looking. "I can't give you what you want." Cecil scrambles to a sitting position, immediately shaking his head in protest of what's coming. Earl cups his cheek in his palm to still the motion. "You're not happy, Ceec. I've tried so hard to give you the life you deserve, but there's -" the words give out as a sudden constriction in his chest attempts to stop the rest of the conversation. "Sometimes things just don't work. I want you to go. I want you to find what it is you're looking for." Cecil releases a hiccup as a tear hits the fingertip still poised along his cheekbone. "Go on your adventure," a deep breath, "even if I can't come with you this time."

"But I love you," Cecil says weakly.

"I love you too. And that's why I need you to be happy."

Neither admits how long it takes them to fall asleep that night.

The following morning, Earl ties the biscuits neatly in a crimson scarf, tucks them carefully into a knapsack by the door. They don't speak at first until Earl opens his arms and Cecil immediately finds his way into them. His hair is longer now, tied into a low ponytail, but it still smells like campfire smoke and cinnamon when Earl leans down to kiss the top of his head. His skin has so many more scars, but his embrace is still so warm and full of electricity where skin touches skin. When did they grow up? How did everything between them become this complicated?

"You could stay," he whispers against his better judgment. "We could still have something. It won't be glamorous or exciting, but I'll take care of you." He pulls back slightly, but Cecil won't meet his eyes. It was a futile attempt, and he knows he doesn't want Cecil to stay. It would break his heart to watch someone he loves so much grow so miserable. They both need this. He opens his mouth for a goodbye, but Cecil's thumbs are on his lips, tracing the edges with an odd reverence.

"I'm coming back. And maybe it'll be out of my system. Maybe things will change. Maybe we can still fix this." Earl doesn't want him to leave without first finding some sort of closure, but when he opens his mouth again Cecil's lips meet his. "I'll come back," he promises as he reaches down for the knapsack and steps through a doorway still stained with russet smudges. Without another word he's gone, and Earl is left alone with the smell of rosemary and a kiss that tasted like goodbye.

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><p><em>lemon: clarity in separation, an end to relationships<em>


	6. Beetleroot Gratin Dauphinoise

**Beetleroot Gratin Dauphinoise**

He isn't making it for Cecil, though the man is slouched against the door to the walk-in produce and live insect refrigerator behind him.

"I never knew you could cook."

The first time Earl heard those words, they were met with a shudder. They had stung, torn the fissure in his heart a little wider just when he thought it couldn't even be broken anymore. But by now it's an old conversation. He closes his eyes and sighs the next line of the script.

"My best badges were in knife skills, butchery, and poisonous food identification. What job did you expect me to get when we grew up?" It's a harmless response, even if the last few words are tipped with an unintended drop of venom.

"Serial killer. Assassin, maybe." Earl snorts at the response. He glances away from the julienned blood-red root he's scraping into a dish long enough to examine the other man. He's older now - face angular and frame broader, hair neatly plaited and brushed down over a shoulder. But for all his differences, freckles still smatter every visible inch of skin, and his bi-colored eyes still hold all the mischief of a child's. He's older, but just the same.

Not the same as before he left for Europe of course. Earl has given up on that Cecil ever coming home. The Cecil he ran into at Rico's a few years after that kiss goodbye had glasses and a smooth voice in place of a slew of memories. Earl tried several times at first to tell him about the things he'd forcibly forgotten, but Cecil would only grow confused and upset; the next day he would resurface with all the glossy features of re-education and even fewer real memories to speak of. Over time avoidance and mistruths became second nature for the scoutmaster until he was almost glad to be dragged away by mute children after finally affording himself some measure of closure.

"So do you get discounts here then? Or…" Cecil ambles closer to the counterspace to watch a pot of simmering crimson stew whose contents Earl knows better than to speak about. "…can you get reservations?"

"We have a website." It's not a curt reply, just a safe one.

"Right. Just, every time I try to visit it I wind up at the page for Applebees." Earl looks him over again from head to toe and back, fighting down a chuckle. Fuchsia fingernails, long dark eyelashes batting at just the right frequency to convey naiveté, pearl-white teeth that clatter against each other in an unconscious tick. Up close he hasn't changed at all.

"Only you could misspell _Tourniquet_ and end up with _Applebees_, Ceec," he teases with a shake of his head. The nickname slips off his tongue out of habit before he can catch it. "I can get reservations though," he tacks on, hoping Cecil will latch on to that in place of the mistake.

"Great! I sort of just need a reservation for two if you can get me one." Cecil bounces on the balls of his feet, glancing over the sparkling kitchen with blissfully ignorant appreciation.

"You got a date?" Earl asks easily as he works at slicing another tuber.

"I might."

It doesn't sound like flirtation, so Earl doesn't understand why he can suddenly feel his heartbeat in the pit of his stomach. Another slice of beetleroot, another measured breath. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"My boyfriend Carlos." Earl blinks. _The taste of honey on lips, the feel of arms around his neck, salty freckled skin, fingers through his hair, an impish giggle, smoke and cinnamon._ He blinks again and it's all gone, the unbidden memories pushed from his mind as quickly as they appeared. Cecil looks mortified at his own confession, like he's said something incredibly offensive. Earl simply smiles at him, surprised at how the burbling stew of emotions has settled somewhere in the vicinity of serene.

"How long have you two been together?"

"A year last week." It's a careful whisper as if the entire topic is taboo. But it isn't. It's relief. There's still something dense in the air between them, something unsaid. Cecil's lips work through shapes, attempting to find the words to no avail. For once, the words aren't Cecil's responsibility. Some strange levity buoys them with terrifying ease to the scoutmaster instead.

"About last summer, the Eternal Scout ceremony-"

"We don't have to talk about it," Cecil interrupts.

"No, it's okay." It really_ is_ okay, which is the scary part. "I didn't mean what I said to you." The effect the words have on Cecil is nearly imperceptible. His hips shift back a fraction, his chin tilts up a minuscule degree in defense of an ego that's trying to decide if it's been wounded or not. "Or, well, I did, but not the way you think," Earl shrugs as he reaches for another root, even though he's already chopped far more than he needs. "I thought I was going to die that day. You were my first love you know - years ago, mind you. Silly kid stuff, but…but still. I didn't want to go without you knowing that." Cecil's scrutinizing him with that familiar honey-chocolate gaze, attempting to discern truth from fiction. If he catches the lie, he doesn't mention. Earl's tempted to keep cutting unnecessary ingredients just to keep his hands busy, but he doesn't. Instead he surprises both of them by reaching up and tucking a strand of dark hair back behind Cecil's ear and allowing his fingers to linger there. "I didn't want anything from you then, and I still don't now." Cecil's eyelids flutter curiously at the touch. He doesn't lean into it but he also doesn't pull away. "All I've ever wanted is to see you happy. If you're happy with the hot scientist, then I'm happy for you both." With a teasing smirk, he drops his hand back to reaching for another beetleroot. The relief of finally explaining everything, finally saying something true after all the placating lies - it's intoxicating. It's bubbling like champagne inside him, making him a little dizzy and almost bringing him to laughter.

"I didn't come here just to mooch reservations, you know," Cecil says slowly after a breath. For one last fraction of a moment, words echo from across the years. _I could go to Rico's for that. I came here for you. _Earl shoves the memory away before it even has time to settle.

"Cecil Gershwin Palmer, if you ask for one more snitch, I swear.."

Cecil drops his head in a laugh, rolls those mysterious eyes, then grows strangely somber. "No. It's just…I'm glad you're back. It's so nice to have a best friend again."

Earl stops cutting, smiles up at him. Cecil mirrors the expression. It's easy. Natural. For once, everything feels the way it was always supposed to.

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><p><em>End Notes: I really love the idea of them becoming best friends again, even if at one time they were lovers, and I wanted to write something to that effect with a happy ending. if you'd like to join me in incoherently cooing about Earl Harlan, I can be found on tumblr at montressorspacep0rt. Thanks for reading!<em>


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